


Sorrow is a Silent Sound

by whydidoth



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, F/M, I'll add more tags later, M/M, but it's going to be darker than the movies, hopefully not too dark?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-25 18:50:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16666282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whydidoth/pseuds/whydidoth
Summary: Power and fear are what motivate people in the time of war. Some are afraid, some crave power, and some are cursed to be a part of both. It is a rare soul that is in neither of these categories. Let it be certain that this is a war.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I, along with probably everyone else, had a lot of issues with CoG. I decided to fix the issues I had. We'll end up generally the same, but in a very different place.

The world is not silent as the various creatures screech and scurry and yowl and do whatever the various creatures are each wont to do. It is not silent, but Newt cannot help wonder where all the sound has disappeared to as he stands idly in the center of his basement. It is the sort of silence that manifests itself when one is alone. It is invasive and persistent, slowly crawling over the walls even in the busiest of cities. It is the quietest during wars when each person is too lost in their own sorrow and solitude to notice the wails of despair from beside them. The world is silent for Newt, and he is not particularly fond of it.

Each creature has been groomed, fed, and applied ointment to on the rare instance of an injury. His diurnal creatures slowly shuffle about, preparing themselves for their rest. The nocturnal creatures have yet to stir, but he is sure that in an hour or so that cooing and caterwauling will begin. There is a sound-proofed shield between the two halves of the room so that they each do not disturb the other. After two months of Bunty hounding him on the subject, there is now also a sound-proof wall between his basement and the rest of the house. It's to let you sleep through the night without constantly being woken by the noise, she had insisted. Newt is still not sure he is content with this, what if his creatures were to need sudden medical attention, and he couldn't help because he could not hear the anguished cries? Bunty suggested hiring another caretaker for the night-shift, and Newt did, to a certain extent. He found himself idly wandering and caring to his creature each night for hours, stealing sleep for only short bursts. It had been a few weeks since he had slept for more than two hours consecutively, but no one had yet to notice, so he supposes he is fine.

He paces through the basement once more, finding that, yes, each creature had been properly cared for and there was nothing for him to do for at least three more hours. It would be then that he could begin his rounds for feeding his nocturnal creatures. He pauses in front of the niffler nest, watching the small nifflets prepare for sleep. Two are already curled up beneath their piles of necklaces, watches, coins, and whatever odd sparkling trinkets Newt could find to gift to them. The third was still rolling happily on the gold pile, shoving as many items into is pouch as possible before they inevitably spill out. He smiled to himself, it would be a few more months before their pouches developed enough to hold more than a single gold bar, but this fact did not discourage the nifflets from trying. Absentmindedly, Newt reached out to the lock on the door to the nest. It was purposely rusted so as to dissuade the nifflets from trying to steal it, yet they had still managed to escape earlier that evening. _“Guomia_ ,” he muttered under his breath, pointing his wand at the lock. Quickly, a thin pink film spread over the rusted surface, encapsulating it in a rubbery substance. Hopefully this would prevent a midnight escapade into his kitchen. He did not fancy finding one of the nifflets asleep inside his copper tea pot again.

Perhaps he should fire Bunty, or at least cut back her hours. She was rather too good at getting everything done that Newt had tasked her with. That had been the intention when he first sat down to write his book, determined to not let himself be constantly distracted by his creatures. But now as he steadily revises and adds new passage after new passage to his manuscript, he misses his creatures terribly and wonders if he could not have found a better balance between caring for his creatures and writing his book. It is likely too late to concern himself with that now. He'll work on the manuscript in the basement tomorrow, he decides. It would certainly only be a fool who writes on how to interact with magical creatures, yet willfully chooses not to interact with them. Newt Scamander may have done many, many, many foolish things, but he himself is not a fool.

It is of course at the moment that he contents himself a bit with this compromise and finds that the silence is not so quiet any more that the protection wards he has placed upon every entrance of his house begin going off. Quickly, he rushes up the wooden stairs, footsteps thundering and his hand touching down every so often to maintain his balance. As soon as he reaches the top, emerging into his kitchen, he points his wand towards the entrance. Two intruders stand there, shocked motionless, as red lights and shadows from the alarm flash at even intervals across their features.

“Who are you?” Newt demands, twisting and craning his neck to look at them like one of his diricawls, “What,” he pauses briefly to squint at their shapes again, distorted by the changing light, “What are you doing in my home?”

“Oh, Newt!” cries a distinct Long Island accent, “Honey! We're in London and wanted to say hello!”

“Queenie?” he asks, which is a rather silly question as no one sounds like Queenie except herself and potentially a particularly skilled imitator. He waves his wand, ending the alarm and resetting his protection wards. There, is the warm lighting of his living room stands Queenie Goldstein, her gold curls glowing in the light and her rosy cheeks warming her soft smile further. In one hand she's gripping her coat, a pale pink with a brown fur trim, it's damp from the rain outside and she'd presumably peeled it off as she'd stepped through the door. In the other hand is gripped—well, that's a surprise. “Jacob?” It's not quite horror that's edging into his voice, but there is certainly a biting tone. Queenie's smile widens in tandem with her grip on Jacob tightening. There's a tenseness between the two, but Newt shakes off the sensation of wrongness. He's never quite understood relationships anyways.

“Isn't it great, honey?” she leans forwards, her tone and body both imploring to go along with whatever it is before him. “Jacob's here!”

Newt momentarily berates himself for not having picked up basic occlumency in the past few months. Hurt flashes over Queenie's face before it twists itself back into a smile. They're both just standing there in the living room now; Queenie smiling, Newt's eyes skittering across every surface, and Jacob gazing at Queenie, a warm smile alighted across his face. Newt wonders if he's being a poor host, but he can hardly be blamed, he didn't even know that he would be receiving guests.

“Well!” Newt starts, twisting away from the pair and looking back towards his kitchen, “Food? That is, if you were hungry. You might not be, it's very late. You probably already ate. I haven't, too busy with my creatures. They've been doing very well, the niffler gave birth about two months ago. The kelpie, well you never met her, but she has a bit of an infection. More of a head cold really, but—”

“Dinner would be great, honey,” Queenie says, striding past him into the kitchen and swishing her wand about, drawing out dishes and food from his frigidaire. Newt finds himself eyeing an aubergine, wondering when he'd bought such a thing. It must have been Bunty, he wouldn't be surprised to find that she had been discreetly stocking his kitchen with edible foods. Jacob brushes past him, not so much a word of hello, and enters into the kitchen to continue his dreamy gazing. The smile Queenie gives Jacob in return practically glows with her joy. They're in love, he thinks to himself, but he had already known this since back in New York. It's not their love, but rather Jacob's presence that leaves him befuddled. Queenie continues on flicking her wand about to chop and roast and season the foods. Her voiceless magic is formidable, even if rather specific to spells used in cooking.

Queenie turns back to him now, a dish with what appears to be meatloaf clutched in her hands while two more dishes of mashed potatoes and peas sit on the table. “Dinner's ready,” she casts him a smile. Jacob is already seated. It is that moment that Newt is struck with the domesticity of the situation, looks at the couple seated at the kitchen table that he never eats at, and considers pardoning himself to go for a walk in the rain. His eyes flicker to where Queenie left her coat on one of his chairs, then move to gaze at the door. Slowly, his body shifts.

“Come sit down so that we can eat!” Queenie calls, drawing him away from his escape. It's with reluctant steps that he finds himself seated at the table. The wood is unfamiliar beneath his hands, the chair he now sits upon as foreign to him as a seat he would find in a stranger's house. He tends to eat as he moves about, writing his book or with his creatures. Sitting down for a meal seems unnecessary and wasteful when surely there is so much more that could be done. As he drums his fingers upon the wooden surface, he considers simply getting rid of it. He could re-purpose the kitchen into a sick bed for any creature that might need closer and more constant attention. Yes, if he removed the door to the cabinet there then he could—

“Do you not like the food?” Newt glances up, taken away from that particular line of thought. Queenie pouts at him as she gestures to his plate with her fork. Looking down, ah yes, his plate is empty. The dishes sit mundanely before him, yet untouched by his own utensils.

“No, not at all. I just,” he quiets himself as he places some of the food on his plate. It is now full, but he does not move to take a bite, “What are you doing here? ” he's not looking at her, instead staring intently at the staircase that leads down to his basement.

“Oh, do you not want...?”

“That's not what I said,” his words are perhaps a bit harsher than intended, but he now looks at her directly. There's hurt shifting in her green eyes as she stares at him silently. “Stop that, stop doing that.”

“I'm sorry, I can't,”

“Yes you—, never mind. What are you doing in London?” Jacob is putting salt on his meatloaf. He doesn't seem aware of the conversation before him. Newt is watching Jacob now, sees how he seems slightly unaware of even the food. He absentmindedly roles some of the peas into the potatoes and squishes the mound flat. Queenie is watching him too before turning her attention back to Newt.

“We're visiting you, silly,” her smile is easy and urges him not to ask any more questions.

“You came to London just to visit me? It's dangerous in Europe right now. You would do better to be home with Tina.” Jacob giggles absently, ceasing to play with his food and instead turning to spring one of Queenie's curls.

“Well, not just, Tina's not, never mind! It's big news! Really big news, Newt! We're so excited,” she sighs out a smile at Jacob who kisses her gently in return. Newt waits for her to continue, fork clutched tightly in his hand. He has yet to touch any of the food that he served himself. “We're getting married!”

Newt is silent for a beat and blinks slowly at the announcement. “Ah, congratulations,” Queenie sends him a thankful smile in return. The florescent lights of his kitchen are constricting. He stands up abruptly, his chair letting out an awful screech as it's shoved across the floor. “Champagne. I think I have, you know, for celebrations.” He walks over to the champagne bottle that is lying on its side on the counter. The contents has poured out over the counter and the ground. He forgot to clean that up from the nifflet incident earlier that evening. With a mumbled “ _Tergeo_ ,” the surfaces are clean once more. He props the bottle up, wondering if he could use it for anything. He doesn't have any other champagne. “Jacob, you were obliviated,” Newt continues to face away and fiddle with the bottle.

“Yeah, um, yes, I was,” comes the bumbled response. It's certainly Jacob's voice, but Newt cannot help but feel there is something missing from it. “It didn't work, it didn't. Well you know, the, the potion or whatever erased all the bad memories. I didn't have any, I mean. I had weird memories, and confusing ones, but they weren't bad. And Queenie, well, she came along and filled me in on everything, and...”

“And here we are!” Queenie jumps in tittering along with Jacob's giggles. “And we're getting married,”

“We're getting married,” Jacob echoes.

“Swooping evil,” Newt cuts in, sounding more forceful than if he had slammed the champagne bottle against the counter, “I believed had the potential to erase bad memories if used in very diluted amounts. I was never able to perfect that, it was just a conjecture. It, when I'd tested it, it acted more as a short term oblivious charm. It erased the memories from a few hours prior up to several weeks. I've been experimenting more with the venom, but I haven't perfected it. It was extremely risky for me to use it in New York. But, Queenie,” he turns back around, his wand is drawn on her as she sits there with distress and fear in her eyes, “It erases all recent memories, not just the bad ones.”

“You're wrong, Newt,” Jacob said, the words would have sounded afraid if they were not so distant, “I know Queenie, I love her. I loved—”

“I'm sorry, Jacob,” Newt says, not taking his eyes off Queenie, “but you're not in your right mind. You've been cursed or poisoned, one of the two. Probably, amortentia?” He poses it as a question to Queenie, who sobs silently as she glares defiantly at him.

“Newt, you don't understand. I love him. He's mine,”

“He's not yours, Queenie. You can't have a person. What you're doing is wrong, you've killed him,”

“No! I didn't! I couldn't—”

“That is not Jacob Kowalski.” Choked sobs are wracking Queenie's petite frame, mumbles of “You're wrong, you're wrong, you're wrong,” coming from her. “That is not Jacob Kowalski,” Newt repeats. “It was, and then you hollowed him out and stuffed your fantasy inside of where he was,” Newt does not speak above a normal conversational tone, but his voice is shaking. “Stay here,” he eventually gets out before sweeping back down into his basement.

When he comes back up, he does so with packages of various materials clutched in his arms. Without looking up at the pair, one of whom is still wailing and the other who seems stuck between doing nothing and absently patting the former on the back, Newt dumps the packages out onto his counter, pulls out a knife and cutting board, and sets about cutting up some of the materials he's pulled from the bag. He summons a small cauldron from one of the cabinets, placing it on his stove, and beginning to make the standard potion base. Once the potion base is fully formed, the flame setting it to a low simmer, Newt gently adds in four Wiggentree twigs from the pile he had chopped up. With each successive twig, the potion base begins shifting color until by the fourth, it is a pure emerald green. He then begins stirring it clockwise with the end of his wand until the green has seemingly shaken itself into a vibrant orange. Queenie clutches Jacob's arm as she watches Newt work, her sobs having subsided into quiet tears sliding across her cheeks and the occasional hiccough of a cry. With each step, the potion shifts from blue to purple to red, back to purple, red green, orange, until it finally comes to rest at a flushed pink. It is the sort of pink one would see on the cheeks of a distraught woman upon finding that her beau is leaving her. It is a rather apt color. Queenie is silent now, simply watching Newt as he draws some of the potion into one of his mugs. Almost two hours have passed since Queenie and Jacob came into his home, he will have to go downstairs to tend to his nocturnal creatures soon.

At last, Newt approaches Jacob and reaches the mug towards him, already aware that he will likely have to force the other man to drink it.

“Please, no,” Queenie breathes out. Newt's motions still as she continues, “He makes me so happy, Newt. Don't you want me to be happy? It's so dark nowadays, we're all so alone. Am I not allowed to be happy?”

“Of course I want you to be happy,” Newt demurs, watching how Jacob seems to be cowering away from the mug, “But your happiness cannot come at the cost of others' existence. You're not inherently a more important person. You can't sacrifice others for your wants.”

They're both motionless, Queenie looking at Newt with sorrow and betrayal in her gaze.

“You know what it's like to be alone, Newt. To have the ones you love turn and leave. Leta, she's—”

“Don't talk about things that you don't understand,” Newt snaps, wrist jerking in his anger so that the potion splashes a bit along the rim, “And get out of my head.”

Queenie falls silent, and Newt grips Jacob's face a bit more forcefully than necessary, making his mouth pucker open in order to pour the potion into his mouth. A bit dribbles down his chin, but the rest is swallowed in desperate gulps as Newt keeps his head tilted back. When all of the potion has been drunk, Newt releases his hold and lets Jacob's head slouch forward. No one moves for one beat, two, three. Jacob has a sputtering kind of cough, rocking back violently in his chair, and only just managing to keep from tipping completely over. After nearly a minute of residual coughing, he finally settles and looks about with teary eyes, another result of the coughing. Before him stands Newt, awkwardly fidgeting and glancing up to him every so often. Beside him sits Queenie who resolutely stares at the spot on the counter beside the champagne bottle.

“Hello,” Newt says, briefly making eye contact with Jacob before letting his gaze skitter away again, “You're Jacob Kowalski,” Jacob gives a short nod more out of reflex than of any understanding of the situation. “My name is Newt Scamander. Do you know who I am?”

“I, no,” Jacob stutters out, twisting about to see where he is, “Where am I? Is this a kidnapping, because I promise there isn't really anyone who'll give you money for me. Or, oh god, are you part of the mafia? But you're British, and—”

“Mr. Kowalski,” Newt begins gently, “I have not kidnapped you, nor am I a part of the Mafia. You're currently in London, in my house. You were brought here by this woman,” Jacob now looks to Queenie who smiles a beautiful and terrified smile at him. “Her name is Queenie Goldstein. She gave you a, a, um, poison of sorts. It meddles with your mind, so you thought you were in love with her. I'm afraid I don't know how long she was poisoning you for, but I gave you the antidote just now. She brought you to London so that the two of you could wed. You might be a bit disoriented right now, but you should eventually be able to recall what occurred while you were under the influence of the poison.”

The kitchen then recedes back into silence.

“Hey, mister,” Jacob begins weakly. Perhaps ten minutes have passed. “Mr. Scamander, I think I remember some of the stuff I did, but I don't remember doing it. How...”

“The poison, it, um, controls you. All of your choices and actions are dictated by the poison and the person who administered it. It's a very dangerous poison that is a criminal offense to use on others,” Newt now looks towards Queenie whose tears have once more begun to flow, “It robs people of their free will in exchange for their absolute devotion, their love if it can be called that, towards the one who administered it.”

Jacob makes to speak, but no words emerge from him, instead a soulless keen seems to crawl from his throat. He looks towards Queenie now, and she's so beautiful as her tears crystallize her green eyes into jade and the florescent lighting sweeps across the planes of her face. She's staring at him deeply, searching, searching. An ugly sob bursts from her, appearing as though she had been slapped across the face.

“No,” she sobs, “no, I'm not. Please,” she reaches out to him, her perfect hands gently brushing against his cheek before Jacob jerks violently back. His chair topples over, crashing against the ground. The noise would have been startlingly loud if any of the present parties had bothered listening to it.

“Don't touch me,” Jacob whispers, and that gentle wisp of a breath seems to break Queenie more than if each of her bones had suddenly snapped.

Her mouth stretches into a silent scream before abruptly snapping shut. She paces away from the kitchen, each motion seeming as though her muscles were suddenly jerking into a new position. Then she does a little half-turn, there's a loud crack, and she's gone.

“Well,” Newt begins, stepping awkwardly around Jacob's form, “She left her coat behind.”

“You, after all—? She left her coat?” he sounds rather breathless.

“Yes, that's what I just said,” Newt mumbles as he inspects the coat, “Real fur,” he bemoans as he sniffs the trim at the neck line.

“Hey, Mr. Scamander. I, I don't want to be a bother, but, you know,” Jacob's voice fades from awareness as Newt bends down to pick up a note that had fallen from one of the pockets. It's an elegant picture of a statue with the word “Paris” embossed in the top left corner.

There's almost an urgency in the way Newt flips it over. _Dear Queenie, Paris is so beautiful_ , reads the careful lettering, _I'm thinking of you. Love, Tina_.

Newt can't hear the rain that he is certain is pounding upon the pavement outside.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

It is a sort of hollow loss that clings to Newt as he gazes at the post card, the paper still stiff and unblemished beneath his fingers. He had remained in contact with Tina since departing from New York, ruffling and flighting owls swooping between the two continents with their brief messages, but it was a breathy and meaningless sort of contact. All the stories and feelings he wished to share with her, yet the bland medium of ink on parchment seemed to still all of his words. The letters were indulgent, each trying to give a bit of their life to the other, but no depth of feeling was contained within them. _I'm thinking of you_. Newt traces over Tina's careful penmanship. What simple words to contain such gentle emotion. He did not know that Tina was in Paris. Perhaps the exclusion of the information was unintentional, merely a slip of the mind. Perhaps she had mentioned it, and he had simply overlooked it. But he had read each letter multiple times, reading them again and again to imagine all the different ways Tina would have spoken those words. Her letters were as much a companion to him as his creatures.

“What was that?”

Newt lets himself linger on the post card for a bit longer before doing a half pivot of sorts. He now faces one of his walls, pinned with all sorts of newspaper clipping, and watches Jacob from the corner of his eye, tilting his chin slightly in Jacob's direction as a sort of acknowledgment. Jacob's face is blanched, the only color on it coming from the pink stain on his chin that the dribbled potion had left behind. He was pointing to the spot Queenie had disapparated from, but it was almost as if he had forgotten he was pointing there as his arm lowered slightly and shook.

“I'm sorry?”

“That! The woman, she got up and just disappeared! What, what is any of this? What's going on?”

“Ah,” Newt jerked his head slightly before reaching up to pull on his fringe, “Disappeared? That's quite...you're probably a bit disoriented. The antidote can cause you to be a bit, well, I suppose 'out of it' would be the best term. We'll, or, I'll just get you sorted, and then, well I'm not sure quite how, but you'll be on you're way back to America!”

Jacob stares at him, a bit agape. Suddenly, he shakes himself and comes back into his senses. “Mr. Scamander, I know what I saw, and it wasn't no 'being out of it,'” He turns to look at the wall Newt's facing, and jerks back upon seeing all the moving images printed on the newspaper cuttings, “Mister,” he starts again, his voice a bit weaker than before, “I think you outta give me an explanation of all, of all,” he spasmodically gestures to himself, then Newt, then the newspapers, then finally the spot Queenie disapparated from, “this.” The final word creaks with a tired desperation.

Newt's grip on the post card tightens, bending the stiff paper beneath his fingers. He looks about rapidly, mouth silently moving as though he were whispering hidden messages to himself. His movements eventually settle, and he tucks the card into his pants' pocket. “Okay,” he says, and proceeds to settle himself on the very edge of the least comfortable seat in the living room, hands pressed before him as if in some final, futile prayer to a god that he knows will not respond.

“Okay?” Jacob seems startles as though he believed he would have to put up a fight before Newt acquiesced to his demands.

“Yes, please sit,” Newt replied, gesturing to the couch and overstuffed armchair that were before him, “or don't. You don't have to, but I think it would be, ah...” he trails off, the loss of his voice seeming to still the room around him. Jacob stills along with it for a second before trepidatiously seating himself on the arm chair. The stuffing sinks a bit beneath his weight so that it seems it was trying to swallow him. Newt eyes the seat for a moment, warily checking that one of his creatures had not disguised themselves in an attempt to eat Jacob. He continues to eye the chair as he begins speaking.

“There's something called the statute of secrecy, put in place to protect our community as well as yours from each other. If the statute were to be broken, that would be considered a criminal offense. Luckily, the only way to know that the statute has been broken is if someone from your community were to portray too much understanding of our community in front of a less lenient individual,” his eyes trail until he was staring directly at Jacob who shifts uncomfortably beneath his gaze.

“I won't tell anyone this, promise. I just want to know what's going on. And if anyone does figure out that I, that I know too much—this really does feel like the mafia,” he mutters to himself, “they won't know that I learned it from you.”

Newt offers him a pressed smile before resuming, “Are you familiar with magic, Mr. Kowalski?”

“You mean like that Harry Houdini guy?”

“No, not,” he pauses, seeming to collect his thoughts, “There's a large group of people across the globe who can do magic. It is not simply an illusion or trick. Miss Goldstein and I are both a part of this group.”

“Ha!” Jacob barks out, loud enough that he startles both himself and Newt, “You're saying I got kidnapped by an international cult of magicians?”

“Well, not quite. It was only Miss Goldstein who kidnapped you. We're not a cult. And we're called wizards and witches, not magicians,”

“Say I do believe that you can do magic, Goldstein magiqued me to follow her to London or something?”

“She used a potent love potion,” Newt continues talking over Jacob's amused cry of 'Oh, so there are potions now, too!' “Called amortentia. By giving it to you, you became entirely devoted to her and susceptible to any of her wishes. She was able to bring you to London simply because she suggested it, and you agreed to go. Love potions are very common, especially among students who want a chance to be with their crush or prank a friend, but at their core, love potions contain a very dark and manipulative magic. There's many restrictions on their usage, but they're rarely if ever enforced. These potions do wear off naturally, but I gave you the antidote to speed up the process.”

“So when she vanished just now, you saying that's magic?” Though Jacob's tone remains disbelieving, hints of interest and perhaps even wonder begin to sneak in.

“Yes, disapparation. It, um, it allows you to disappear from where you are and reappear in any spot you can imagine.”

“Magic,” Jacob almost seems to laugh out the word before falling into silence. He watches the newspapers on the wall, a few of the figures noticing his gaze and waving back at him. Their headlines read things like 'Australia Consider Lifting Ban on Magical Creatures' and 'American Authorities Refuse to Turn Over Grindelwald'. One article in particular seems to be put in the center with a note tacked up next to it. 'Portina Goldstein Reinstated Following New York Disaster' reads the title. Beneath it stands a woman in a trench coat, she smiles easily, watching Newt. “Hey Mr. Scamander,” he says eventually, “Can you show me some magic?”

Newt seems almost startled by suddenly being engaged in conversation once more. His eyes widen until they seem to loom out at Jacob. “Yes,” he brings out his wand, appearing as nothing more to Jacob than a nicely polished stick, and points it at the coffee table that lies between them. _“Testudofors_ ,” he says, a pale flash coming from his wand before suddenly, instead of a coffee table, there is a rather disgruntled tortoise with various papers and pens that had previous been on the table rolling off of the shell and clattering to the ground. Jacob stares, flabbergasted at the sight before him. The tortoise, uncaring of the attention it's receiving, ambles a few steps forwards, plops itself down, and then retreats back into its shell.

“Magic,” mumbles Jacob. He slowly drags his hand over his face, appearing that if he hadn't already been sitting, he likely would have collapsed to the ground. “Magic!” he repeats, this time a bit more incredulously as if by saying the word, it will explain itself to him. Needless to say, no greater understanding suddenly emerges. Instead, Newt and Jacob simply stare at the shell of the hiding tortoise.

“Well!” Newt eventually breaking the silence, glancing at his wrist as though there were a watch there. There is not a watch there, and though wizards may be magical, they cannot tell the time by looking at their wrists. “I suppose I should be going!”

“W-what?” Jacob blusters, practically chocking on his startled exclamation, “You can't leave Mr. Scamander! Where am I gonna go? You can't just leave me!”

“I had thought that you would simply stay here,” he begins, rising from his seat and beginning to make his way towards his kitchen, “but I suppose you can come with me to the basement if you want.”

“The basement?” Jacob echoes, but Newt gives no response or sign that he even heard, instead entering his kitchen and opening a door that appears as though it would simply lead to a pantry. Too confused to be indecisive, Jacob follows Newts steps and finds himself clattering down a wooden staircase with heavy steps. The air in the basement, he is quick to find, contains a heavy dampness that settles deep within his lungs. It also swirls with the scent of freshly turned soil and the ocean. Of course, the scents are hardly tantamount to the sights that lie before him. Pathways run throughout the basement, the pathways themselves lined with bizarre creatures that he had never seen before, even in some of the more fantastical stories he had read as a child. The enormous basement is cast in darkness and where the ceiling should have been, there is instead a deep blue night sky with twinkling stars. Newt himself is flitting back and forth between various creatures and a large work table in the center of the room. In either hand swing large metal buckets from which he pours feed out to the creatures that come to swarm around him.

Jacob slowly approaches where Newt is crouched, cooing gently to some small creatures that come up and gently head-butt him. They were small, dark, four-legged creatures with enormous blue eyes. Each time Newt coos at them, gently tossing feed that they seemed to float into their mouths, they coo back in return. Newt, finally noticing Jacob's presence or at least finally deciding to acknowledge his presence, stands from his crouched position and smiles, the first genuine one Jacob had seen so far.

“These are mooncalves. Very shy creatures, so approach them gently,”

Jacob does as told, slowly edging towards the small herd. Noticing his encroachment, they all scurry back a few steps, continuing to watch him with their luminous gaze. He is rather certain that he had never seen anything so cute.

“These, uh, these mooncalves, they magic like you?”

“Yes, all of these creatures are. I take care of them and study them,”

“Like a zookeeper. Like a magical zookeeper,”

“Yes,” Newt tosses a final handful of feed to the mooncalves before beginning to make his way back to the table at the center. “I'm a magizoologist, so a magical zookeeper is a fairly apt description.” He then pulls out a large carcass from beneath the table and begins hacking into it, dumping the parts into three buckets. “Here,” he drops one into Jacob's hands and begins making his way to whichever creature next needs feeding.

That's how they continue for a while, Jacob trailing behind Newt as he gives food to each of the creatures that are awake. Every so often he'll pause to coerce one of the creatures into taking what Jacob assumes to be medicine. Aside from Newt offering explanations of each of the creatures, he doesn't speak to Jacob. There's a certain tenseness to his motions that grow as they go deeper and deeper into the basement. With each passing comment from Jacob, his mouth seems to twitch into a frown before straightening itself back into its previous expression.

Eventually, Jacob seems to muster the courage to cease ignoring it. “Hey Mr. Scamander, you okay?”

Newt slows his walking, coming to a stop as one of the giant dung beetles ambles past them. He furrows his brows, opens his mouth to say something, scowls at whatever he was about to say, and then opens his mouth to try again. “Yes, I'm fine. Thank you.” He doesn't look at Jacob, instead concentrating his gaze rather intensely on a patch of ground just beside his foot.

“Well, alright,” Jacob's frowning at him. Newt shifts under his gaze, glancing up briefly before looking at the ground again.

“I think,” he hums gently as though deciding what it was that he'd just thought, “I'd like to show you something.” And off he goes, darting adeptly between the pathways, leaving Jacob to puff hurriedly behind him in an attempt to keep up. They arrive at a woven wooden nest that is elevated a few feet off the ground. Inside it sit several small serpent-like creatures. Most of them are asleep save one that blearily eyes Newt, gently chirping as he approaches.

“These,” Newt whispers once Jacob arrives beside him, breathing slightly more heavily than normal, “are ocamies. They're almost a year old and will become fully mature around age five. They're notable for their capability to change sizes depending on the area of the space provided. They are also rather naturally vicious from a young age, an evolutionary trait that they had to develop to combat poachers coming into their nests and stealing their eggs. They're eggs are made completely of silver which, of course makes them rather valuable.”

“Silver eggshells?” Jacob mutters, staring at the ocamies, his mind struggling to recall why silver eggshells would be important. He jerks back suddenly, nearly falling over backwards onto the uneven earth. “You? At the factory, in the, in the case? And the bakery, eggshells?” It's less of a question and more of a stuttering realization, begging for confirmation.

“Yes,” Newt says, tilting his head and continuing to watch the ocamies, “It was their eggshells in the case you were given that day.”

“And you? You were the one who gave them to me?” Newt doesn't respond, but the answer is clear enough. “But why? You some kinda investment shark Mr. Scamander?” The joke wobbles on its way out, but it is a joke nonetheless.

“I,” Newt begins, his voice rising above a whisper, causing him to glance worriedly at his ocamies. Instead of continuing, he nods his head to the work table, making his way there with Jacob at his heels. They come to rest there, Jacob's hands clenching and unclenching while Newt takes the postcard from his pocket and begins fiddling with it. “I knew you. We met about a year ago at the bank. One of my creatures had gotten loose, and you got a bit caught up in helping me find it. My niffler, actually. You'll meet her at some point if you decide to stick around.”

“So, I helped you find your creature and you gave me a ton of silver?”

“Well, there's rather a lot more that happened. But we were friends. Actually, it was also at that time that I met Queenie and Tina.”

“Queenie? The bird who poisoned me? Is that why I don't remember any of this? Was she already poisoning me?”

“No, that was a rather more recent and unexpected occurrence. You can't remember any of this because we had to wipe your memory of the events. Remember the statute of secrecy? Muggles, non-magical folk like yourself, aren't supposed to know about, about all this.” He glanced away quickly when he said that as though it was some fault of his own that Jacob's memory had been wiped.

“And who's Tina?”

“Tina? Ah,” Newt twirls the postcard, staring at it as he speaks, “She's Queenie's sister. Tina and Queenie Goldstein.”

“Hah,” Jacob's voice creaks with poorly concealed tension, “there's two of 'em?”

Newt freezes at that, looking up at Jacob with a frigid expression tightening his features. “Neither Tina nor Queenie are bad people, they're some of the best I've ever met. What Queenie did was unforgiveable, and her reasons were unjust. I don't know what possessed her to do that, and I will not attempt to defend those actions, but she is an honest and hard working person. Tina, too, works tirelessly to protect and support others. Queenie may have done something bad, but that does not make her a bad person. It especially does not make Tina a bad person simply by proxy.”

“Yeah,” Jacob wears his agreement uncomfortably like how someone wears a hand-knitted sweater to appease their grandmother. He searches around, desperate to find a way to divert the tension that lays taught between them. “You got a postcard?”

“What? Oh, yes,” Newt looks down at the letter he had been twirling between his fingers as though he had just become aware of it. “It fell out of Queenie's pocket. It's from Tina, she's in Paris. That's probably where Queenie headed off to, too.”

“Well, I guess I know where I won't be heading any time soon,” the joke falls flat even to his own ears. Newt's shoulders lift as his head ducks down as if he was attempting, like the tortoise, to curl within a shell that he doesn't have. “Hey, Mr. Scamander, you weren't thinking of going to Paris, were you?”

Newt stuffs the postcard back into his pocket, frowning at nothing in particular. “It would be a bad idea. There's still, I still have the travel ban, can't leave England. It wouldn't be worth it to, no,” he speaks more to himself than Jacob. “No, Mr. Kowalski. I won't be going to Paris.” And with that, he heads back out to the fringes of the basement to be with his creatures.

Jacob is left simply standing there, wondering if he would get to leave London anytime soon, wondering if he even truly wanted to leave.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the characters begin to drift further and further from where they are supposed to be. Feedback and kudos are adored, each one helps to power my smile :)


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